a vision of myself turning to mysticism in despair
turning to theology in despair, a metaphysics so heavy and symmetrical
it seems to have flesh
one’s consciousness turned upon one’s consciousness turned upon
one’s consciousness turned upon one’s consciousness
to see stars in the daytime
the truth that haunts behind all facts that summons and scorches
all attempts to discern it
the golden fire, the pattern of patterns, the point of the blade
i do want to live in a world where my mind finds beauty and pattern.
and i do not find renunciation of seeing beautiful patterns as a good in itself,
but i do see the contradiction always inside of it.
to risk becoming dull to facts, unsensitive to the complex, dirty,
gritty nuances of the world.
to give up one’s existence in this world as it really is before one has even died.
to extrapolate what i get from a comrade’s theory
rest replenishes one’s fighting capacity meter back closer to full; comfortability reduces one’s overall fighting capacity–it shrinks the meter
most things in this world that provide rest also provide comfortability.